


Lost and Found

by stories11



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Honestly I put canon through the damn shredder years ago this is my world and my children now, Split Timelines, WILDLY canon divergent, and the other is post poa, basically you're going to get two timelines one is the first war
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 04:08:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16905825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stories11/pseuds/stories11
Summary: Peter Pettigrew, the unwilling spy of Lord Voldemort, stands at a turning point in his life. When he is made the secret keeper of the Potters, there are only two choices left it seems. To turn to the Dark Lord that he has tried to protect them from at the cost of the other members of the order, or to tip his hand to the order and lose them before losing his life. There is no room in the war for sympathy or understanding, and none can suffer a spy to live. That is until he carves a path to his own survival. A severed finger is left in his wake, the final remnants of Peter. Sirius remains a free man, and the Potters survive, but they are left questioning the cost, however not all that is lost remains unfound.





	1. October 28, 1981. 8pm.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [someothermonstra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/someothermonstra/gifts).



     The night of October 28th, 1981 will not be marked in any history book or remembered to many as a particularly important date. A cold day with rain pouring down by the bucket. Even without the looming clouds, Peter would not be able to make out a moon in its shadowed state. The one goodbye that he cannot make tugs at his soul in a visceral way as he stands under the torrent, peering up at the sky as he wonders for a moment where Remus is. A secret mission for Dumbledore, a recurring one that has made him distant in the past years. Not gone, but distant. Not that he can blame him for that, as he has been something of a recluse in the past year. He can't tell secrets that he does not know, but these breadcrumbs when gathered together become substantial. There are corpses on his conscience, and that is why he must do this. To prevent there from being more.

     If he wanted to, he could be at the Potters' doorstep in an instant, but he wants to remember this. Every puddle stepped in, every icy droplet sliding under his collar as he walks through Godric's Hollow, keeping a pace hurried enough to dissuade attention. It's not as if slowing his pace will make the decision any simpler or easier to execute, it just lengthens the short time he has left walking amongst them. A curtain rustles as he passes by a house, a golden crack through which someone peers, and he increases his speed. Being seen is not the problem, it is the fact that through the gloom he cannot see who lurks out of sight, and that makes him nervous. Then again, most things have since the war began, especially in the past year. Hand drifts down to his pocket, and he brushes his fingertips across the handle of his wand. The light carvings he'd made there in times where he had needed focus. A task to put his idle hands to work. The curtain closes, he ducks his head, it's time to get a move on.

     Drawing close to where he knows it is located, the blonde must keep a sharper eye out for the landmarks that distinguish where the cottage is hidden. A withered elm and a broken fence post might seem to any other to simply be the ordinary features of an empty lot, but he knows better. Glancing about to be sure that he hasn't been followed and that no one is watching, he ducks into the hidden yard, thankful not to run into the hedges this time, instead passing through the gate. He closes it behind him as though it will make a difference beyond what the charm entails. Such a mundane measure of security, and yet he feels the undeniable compulsion all the same before sprinting across the yard to the front stoop to dry himself with a warming charm. Another sensation he commits to memory.

     An open door policy has been in place with the marauders since their first year at Hogwarts, having lived most of their lives together since their preteen years, but since the war began they've all been on edge. It's why he doesn't simply waltz into the cottage like he belongs. He hasn't felt like he belonged in some time now. A hesitant knock has to be pounded out louder to be made out over the sounds of the rain and he can hear them inside, voices light but he knows them well enough to hear the underlying nerves that underscore them every time they must open the door.

     "Lily, door!"

     "James, door!"

     They always echo it back to each other, and he wonders if before long there will be a third voice to chime in beyond babbling speech. It's a charming thought, of his honorary nephew chiming into the familiar cycle followed by the melancholic realization that he won't be around to see it. The thoughts, however, are cut short by James' voice through the door.

     "Who's there?" He asks, as though it can be anyone else there. As if anyone else being on the other side would be anything less than the epitome of betrayal. If it were someone intent to cause them harm, the door would be a minor obstacle if one at all.

     "...It's the bloody minister of magic. Who do you think it is? Are you gonna to let me in or what? It's freezing out here."

     The tone is one he's carefully crafted over time to be reassuring, something that takes an enormous effort to force out but it's worth it to see some fraction of a smile on James' face. Those are too rare these days and he can see the brief flash of red hair as the curtains part to ensure his identity. To ensure he's alone. He can't blame them for the extra precautions, for the implicit lack of trust that must come with entrusting him with their greatest secret. He only wishes they had trusted him less as the locks of the door are undone to reveal James in his rumpled pajamas with one of those faint smiles. This is how he wants to remember him, a mess but still burdened with hope and happiness even as he raises an eyebrow at him.

     "You're not going to track mud in, are you?"

     "Why, you havin' guests over?"

     "Just don't want to attract any rodents."

     "Little late for that, isn't it?" Just like that, the tension relaxes slightly and James steps aside, gestures for Peter to enter, and hugs him.

     "Good to see you, Wormtail."

     "What's it been, two days?"

     "Feels like a lot longer when you can't leave."

     He grimaces slightly in sympathy before he produces the two letters that Sirius had already managed to write since the fidelus charm had been cast, knowing full well the way that James would feel in his near isolation. Peter can't help but feel that they are all in isolations of sorts, that this is just the final severing of ties until the war ends. Passing the letters to the other, he manages a half smile. "Padfoot thought you might feel that way. I'm sure he's got loads more to say, he just doesn't realize it yet."

     Whatever else he might have to say is cut short however by the sensation of something, or rather someone, tugging at the bottom of his robes and he looks down to see the young child using him to support himself as he pulls himself up to smiling with soft babbling spilling out of his mouth. With little hesitation, Peter leans down to pick up the child, and his smile becomes just a touch more melancholic.

     "Unca P!" Young Harry exclaims, and the blonde's smile becomes more gentle.

     His not quite nephew has always had that sort of effect on him, and as he can see Lily in his peripherals, leaning in a doorway with a steaming mug of tea, he allows himself to sink into the warmth of the idyllic scene. The sense of family and belonging, like the war outside is just that. Outside. Something with which they need not bother themselves with for the time being. A nebulous concept that can do them no harm while they are encased in the glow of this unconditional love. But nothing lasts forever, and as the clock strikes the eleventh hour, a chill runs down the length of Pettigrew's spine. The war is on their doorstep, it's inside their house, breathing down their necks. He invited it inside, an unwanted passenger that slid out from beneath the folds of his robes as if reminded of its purpose when his attention was drawn to the time.

     Harry had fallen asleep on his chest three hours prior, and he'd allowed him to sleep there for an hour or so, carrying on a hushed conversation with Lily and James before the little one was finally put to sleep in his own bed. They've been very good at playing normal for a while but reality comes in a sudden violent wave. Laughter had filled the room a scant few seconds before but as it died it was replaced with the silence of a tomb. It feels almost holy in its somberness, and there's an urge that was impressed into him by his muggle mother to go crashing to his knees and pray for forgiveness. It might be his last chance after all.

     “I should go, it’s getting late.” It’s not what he wants to say. There’s a torrent of I love yous held behind his fragile teeth and slipping on the tip of his tongue but they are held back with the strength of will that he didn't realize he possessed. It astounds him sometimes how he finds these secret wells within him that allow him the chance to retain his fragile grips on this reality and the goals he must achieve. Standing is difficult with the weight of the world weighing upon his shoulders when he is no Atlas. How much weight would be gone if he discarded the bolt cutters from his pocket? Too much.

     When he wraps his arms around Lily, he tries to remember her for the vibrancy and warmth, for the happiness. Not the exhaustion, or the fear, or the worry that he can feel in her touch. That he's felt since they became unsheltered from the war. When he hugs James, he tries to remember too many memories. Of the forbidden forest and whispered conversations in the dead of night in Gryffindor Commons. A brotherhood never meant to be broken, but it will not be all that is severed on this night. When they tell him to be safe, he almost chokes on it. There is no safety left, not for him. There hasn't been for the better part of a year, and he must take all that he brought into this home with him when he goes. There is something sickening bubbling in the pit of his stomach, comprised of the words that he so desperately wishes to say that keep creeping up his throat like bile, but he refuses to release it as he says his goodbyes.

     Almost to the door, he pauses and turns to look to James and Lily for what he knows must be the final time. Withdrawing a brightly colored parcel from his robes, he sets it on a table to the right of the door. "For Diwali. I won't be here for it, got a mission from Dumbledore yesterday... somethin' tells me that it'll be a long one. I'll be back when I can. Promise."

     It's a promise he can't keep, not if he wants to keep them alive. He hopes they'll forgive him in the end, even if they never know the truth. With that final hollow sentiment, he braces himself as he steps out into the rain with a steadfast determination. There are plans that must be set into motion, and if he waits he'll lose what little nerve he has left. Teeth chatter in the chill of the night, and it's only as he reaches the gate that he hears the door to the household open, and James' voice cut through the crashing rain.

     "Peter!"

     The blonde does not turn around or try to decipher his tone, instead, he steps out of the protection of the fidelus charm and into the streets of Godric's Hollow. A few seconds later, a loud crack sounds in time with a roll of thunder, and he is gone as quickly as he came.

     He appears next in front of a small house, but it is not one which he will approach. Instead, he produces a note from his pocket, a seemingly blank piece of paper save for the initials P.P. written in the upper right corner. Sirius is a smart man, and Peter entrusts he will be able to puzzle out the spell that will decode the secret message it holds. The address of the Potters, thus passing along the secret to another, ensuring their continued protection. The only one whom he will pass the secret on to. A few quick movements and the paper is whisked into the building, and he stands there for a while, watching the house. He can't risk another goodbye, it could cast suspicion, and so the words are a whisper lost to the rain, along with an apology.

     Arrival at his final destination is heralded by another loud crack, ending in an empty field not far from where his mission was meant to take place. The rain has lessened to a soft drizzle in the area, and he supposes that's helpful in a way as he casts the temporary shielding spells to make sure that he will be neither seen nor heard as he proceeds with his plan. What follows, if it had been seen, might be considered by some to be a spectacular show of light and destruction as he staged that which would be the sight of his supposed death. The earth is scarred and upturned, the trunk of a tree blown to pieces, for he must seem as though he fought with all he had or those he once called brothers would never believe it. In the end, he stands in the center of a battlefield carefully crafted, but not too carefully. Messy by design, and he pants for lost breath as he drinks in every inch of it, trying to figure where his final resting should be.

     He settles on a marred area along the edge of the field of protection and has to steady his nerves as he approaches. There is no turning back from this, not as he takes his wand in his fists and snaps it. Once. Twice. Three times. The remnants of a battle that he tosses away. That part of his life is over, and there is only one piece left to the puzzle as he removes the bolt cutters from his pocket with a choked sob.

     The finger of Peter Pettigrew is found on October 30th, 1981 by Alice Longbottom, and while she suspects its origin, it is not known for certain until the broken wand is shown to Sirius Black for identification.

     On October 31st, 1981, Peter is officially declared dead. There is no next of kin to present his remains to as Kassandra Pettigrew had been killed in her home two days prior. Another act of violence by the death eaters at the dark lord's beck and call made to seem less coincidental by the death of her son in the hours before.

     November 15th, 1981, a rat is found and adopted into the Weasley family. Percy immediately takes a shine to him and soon the rat becomes his personal companion. The war has ended, but there is no path of return for a rat now named Scabbers.


	2. August 3, 1994. 1pm.

     "It's not Peter."

     James doesn't even bother to look up at Sirius as he jabs his finger at what will inevitably be another photo of another rat that is not their fallen friend. He stopped allowing himself to be drawn into these things more than a decade before. They all hold guilt about Peter's untimely fate, but none of them so much as Sirius. He seemed to take his disappearance personally, as though he were somehow instrumental in his disappearance. There was a time at which Remus seemed to agree, and Sirius had been at his throat. No one had expected his memorial to be a pleasant occasion, but the violent fight that erupted between them caught most everyone off guard. They refused to be in the same room for months after, and still weren't speaking by the first anniversary of Peter's death. That might have proven an issue if Sirius had even shown up to the grave site, but on the principle that he believed in Peter's survival, he refused to show. It's no secret that he still doesn't believe in their friend's demise, but at least he's begun to attend their annual visits to his grave.

     "It's different this time if you'd just look-"

     "This is the fifth rat you've been convinced is Peter."

     "It's the ninth, actually." Remus chimes in from across the table.

     While the two have gotten back to speaking terms, they've never been quite the same after the dust settled. An ever-present sharpness always lurks below the surface when they address each other, and James suspects that they've never actually forgiven each other, they simply lack proof to fuel their hidden convictions. The point currently in question, however, is an important one that must be acknowledged.

     "My point exactly... It's not him. It never is."

     "If you would just look at the picture, I'm telling you, it's him." Sirius proceeds to push a well-worn clipping from the Daily Prophet across the table, tapping just above the image of the familiar looking rat on the shoulder of a very familiar looking boy. In the fraction of an instant it takes for James to take in the image, his expression sours and he places his quill back into the inkwell so as not to ruin the parchment he's been working on. He wants to burn the clipping on instinct. Or maybe he wants to laugh. Rather than do either of those he flicks it to his right in the direction of Remus.

     "Would you look at that, Moony? Peter is just upstairs. He's probably sitting on my son's bed right now." His tone is derisive and uncharacteristic of him. James is at the end of his rope when it comes to all of this. It's been nearly 13 years since they laid him to rest but Sirius won't stop gnawing at this as if there will somehow be a surge of validation to prove that he's been right not to let this go. As long as he holds onto this, he will never let himself grieve, and he'll never move forward.

     When the picture lands in front of Remus, he glances between the two for a moment before he looks to the photograph of the Weasleys and it takes a moment to see exactly what he's looking for. Sitting on Ron's shoulder is a quite familiar looking rat, and a flicker of recognition passes over his face but he is made to reason that the boy must have brought him to class before. There is no reason to fuel Sirius' irrational belief over a similarity. All rats look the same anyways. At least that's what he tells himself as he puts it back on the table. "It's not him. He's dead, Sirius."

     "You recognized him, I saw it." The tone is undeniably resentful, but the topic of Peter always seems to bring that out between them. An old wound that never quite heals right, breaking open anew with each provocation and jab. It's hard to move past when they don't know the whole truth of what happened in the final year of the war. Maybe they never will. Maybe this will be the rift that never closes entirely even as they try to mend it. The words are underscored by the way he presses a hand to the table and shoves an accusing finger in Remus' face, but the werewolf fails to take the bait when offered.

     "I've been Ron's teacher for the past year, of course I recognize his _pet_." For his intents to be calmly dismissive, there's still an edge to his voice. A bitterness that seeps through, and he can feel James' gaze on him. The silent insistence that he not start this again, no matter how unreasonable Sirius might be acting. They're adults, they should act it. Moments like this, however, bring him back to the day of the memorial, remind him why they rarely speak without James or Lily present anymore. Last time they'd had a private discussion, he'd ended up having to reset his broken nose after they ended up back on this topic again. It seems inevitable almost. Jaw twitches and he clears his throat. "Why don't you just ask him if you can see..."

     " _Scabbers_." Lily supplies as Remus struggles momentarily for the rat's name, Peter being the only one coming to mind even as he refuses to indulge in Sirius' fantasies.

     The werewolf looks to the redhead and smiles slightly, regaining some calm not having to try to fight through the fog of emotion that has come to mind since the beginning of this conversation. How long had she been there? He can't be sure, it's one of Lily's gifts that she is able to slip in and out of a room without notice when she so chooses. It's only natural that this is one of those moments she would rather not be drawn in. "Thank you--- just ask if you can see Scabbers and you'll see that it isn't him."

      Sirius' eyes narrow slightly as if he's trying to ascertain whether or not Remus means it, but there is little to imply a joke. "Maybe I will."

     "Maybe you should."

     Silence follows in the stillness, Sirius still leaning across the table to stare him down and Remus unflinchingly staring back. Both James and Lily tense, the witch's fingertips grazing the handle of her wand preparing to break things up if it spirals into another fight before Sirius speaks again. "Maybe I will."

     Before anything more can be said, he leans back in his seat, surveys the expressions of those in the room before he shoves away from the table muttering under his breath and James buries his head in his hands.

     "Did you have to encourage him?"

     "Look at this way, he'll look at Ron's rat for three seconds and he'll give up trying to convince us that it's Peter. He'll be upset for a while but he won't keep trying to convince us... At least not until the next one."

     "Tenth time's the charm?" The bitterness isn't entirely intended and is hampered by the clear weariness. This is wearing on all of them, slowly but surely.

     "I'm worried about him." Lily chimes softly, speaking the words that they all hesitate to say.

     An uncomfortable truth, but a truth that they can all agree on nonetheless. It's an exhausting roundabout. A push and pull whenever he dredges up new evidence, and they all know it's because he feels responsible. They all do, but none more than Sirius, who had put forth his name to be the secret keeper. He'd thought he would be safe. That no one would expect him, and that the suspicions would be cast off. And just like that, he was gone. No amount of reassurance could assuage a guilt like that.

     "Don't know what we can do for him at this point. He's not going to just give it up." James posits rather tiredly, as they've had this discussion before. Every time coming up with any number of ideas to dissuade or distract him they always end up in the same moment, and solutions are running thin. The bottom of a barrel can be scratched so often before there is nothing left inside and he fears that's what they've come to.

     "Let him do this, he's running out of ideas. If Ron's pet is his next solution, then there can't be many more left. He'll simply have to accept it."

     "When have you ever known him to simply let something go?" Lily challenges and silence falls over the trio, and the redhead moves to stand behind Remus, glancing over his shoulder to look down at the clipping still on the table and tilts her head slightly. "It does look a bit like him, doesn't it?"

     "Not you too." Her husband groans.

     "I'm not saying that it is him, only that it looks---"

     The conversation is cut off rather abruptly by a sudden eruption of crashing sounds, followed by the yelling of two teenage boys. As Remus and James rise to their feet, they are not given the chance to investigate the noises as the commotion is coming to them. The sound of several feet on the stairs followed by the continuing shouts of which only one word can clearly be made out. Scabbers. The three exchange momentary glances that have Remus turning pale. He never would have made the suggestion if he thought that Sirius would hurt the poor rat. They don't have to wonder for long though as Padfoot comes skidding around the corner with a very distressed looking Scabbers hanging from between his teeth. Soon three more voices are joining the yelling, the boys close on the dog's tail as he drops the animagus on the kitchen floor.

     "What in the bloody hell do you think you're doing?!"

     Who shouts it is hard to distinguish, maybe all of them in some way or another are as Sirius shifts back and draws his wand on the rat is simply too stunned to scamper away in the commotion. Without flinching, he looks to those gathered and with great conviction announces "Proving a point."

     Before anything more can be said or done, a flash of blue light fills the kitchen, momentarily blinding them all, but nothing can prepare them for what happens next as sight returns and the rat is surely gone.

     "Merlin's bloody beard." It's about the only response James can muster to the fact that the friend he laid to rest thirteen years prior now lay half dead in a wheezing heap on his kitchen floor where Scabbers had been mere seconds before.

     Stunned as surely as anyone else, Sirius stands panting with his wand still in hand as the words fall out of his mouth unbidden. "...I told you it was him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this chapter is not my best work I've been super sick and going through some stuff but I knew if I didn't get this done I never would. Chapter 3 is already well underway, I promise. And it's better.


End file.
